


Apostate by Fate

by lacklustreAxe



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Relationships, Fix-It of Sorts, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24285835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacklustreAxe/pseuds/lacklustreAxe
Summary: And so, like a wolf resolute in taking the babe from its cradle. He stalked forward, his gait showing no fear, though he felt it. He only shows determination, though his heart hesitates. His inhibitions held, locked away as not to betray his duty. Behind Burke and Whitehorse, to meet the devil. To arrest Joseph Seed.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. Good Intentions

A pilot, a deputy, a sheriff, a marshal, and a rookie, all aboard a helicopter. A joke in the making Rook mused in his mind, a small sneer of humour on his face. He fiddled with his phone, turning it on, navigating to the video. But he turns off the screen before he opens the video again. The preacher and his thumbs in that man's eye sockets. He watched it back at the station, more than once, and skimmed it from his seat, secured in the back of the helicopter. It was as if he hoped for some revelation. For some answer divine or otherwise to reveal itself from its contents, if he scrutinized it enough. He lets out a small huff at his perceived failure in doing so.

“Don’t worry Rookie, no signal out here.” Sheriff Whitehorse reassures him of his assumed trouble. Though Rook had not clicked the video, he was sure the Sheriff's words were true enough. He lifts his head to see Marshal Burke’s scepticism in his person and fills the gaps himself.

“Rookie in name only Marshal, Junior Deputy by title. Maybe even a police surgeon in practice.” Rook smiles, casting a glance at the pilot, his friend. The begrudging reciprocal of the hidden teasing. 

Staci Pratt and Rook had quite the adventure. Chasing after plastered youths after interrupting their night debauchery. Vandalism was harmless enough. The words scrawled across the wall would have called for a photo opportunity at that moment. Had they not been on active duty. The chase had taken them through poison ivy. To the party of the cornered teens and their host; a very upset wolverine. Back at the station, they bandaged up juristically and literally. They had gone back to the scene of the crime in the light of the day. A photo of the two of them, Rook's arm bandaged, but underneath brandishing a wolverine bite. It slung over Staci’s shoulders holding his friend close. Staci covered head to toe in was no doubt going to be one hell of a rash. Behind them, the graffiti spelling out ‘fuCK COpS’ all capitalized just so. To give them the benefit of the doubt Rook offered an explanation of an anagram, though that may be cocky of him. And at his pun, Staci had punched him without holding back. It was nothing compared to the punishment he received later. When Staci had found the Christmas card he had sent out to family and friends was the very same picture.

Staci had also recalled the tale. Or at least one of them. As that was only an example of the stupid shit they got up to together. He let out an annoyed sigh, though his fond smirk betrayed him.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Joey Hudson is firm, an anchor that grounds Rook even now. His friendship with her is unlike Staci’s but just as strong. An equilibrator to the compulsion and passionate nature of Rook. What was the saying? When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? A paradox meant to invoke a dialogue, a question. But to Rook, he knows the answer, and from his experience, it was one hell of a team. She has saved his skin time and time again and he is almost too humble to mention he has done the same. Though this does not necessitate life or death, but rather a shoulder to lean on, and a person to rely upon. Swapping shifts, sharing the work-load. An offer of hot coffee to replace the cold overlooked over the desk of paperwork. A drinking buddy to share rapture and woe, and a designated driver to see each other safely home. 

“And if it does, be sure that fuck lives long enough to see his trial.” Marshal Burke chides, eyes not glancing up from their glare at the warrant. His claim to power over the situation. 

“Speak of the devil.” Rook taking on a lilt of mirth. His eyes fix that of the depiction of ‘The Father’ as they call him. For a man of the lord, who protests pride, and worldly possessions he sure does have a fuck-off big statue of himself. And Rook could feel no less like David facing down Goliath.

“There he is,” Joey says as if to confirm it.

“Crazy motherfucker,” Staci adds, voicing everyone's thoughts.

“Jesus,” Whitehorse says, almost too fitting to take the lord's name in vain.

Rook’s mind wanders then, not really listening to everyone. Only noting Whitehorse’s attempt to reason with the Marshal. But Rook did not need to hear to know that he would be too stubborn. A man ruled by duty and obligation, or even something more self-serving. His waving of the warrant as an authority. Nancy, their dispatch, over the line, and her questioning. Rook barely hears it all, his mind caught in the web of the interior of the church he too would see soon enough. He blinks rapidly as he faces out the window. Perhaps an unconscious effort to make use of the eyes he may no longer have by the end of this. He almost regrets wearing gloves, he can feel the sweat pooling in his palms. But it was a barrier of necessity, a detachment almost of what he was about to do. To arrest the Father, though on orders, and alongside allies felt as good as suicide. And he was without thirty pieces of silver.

That’s when it came into view, and Rook surveyed the compound. He knew already they came underprepared and undermanned, but it is the hand he is dealt. The bonfires felt closer than they were, the ghosting idea of it tickling his skin. The faux heat of his imagination is almost an excuse for the sweat in his palms. But he knew better. It licked the reflection of his eyes and foretold a fate that Rook had no business knowing, nor did he want to.

Then they landed, a figurative show of their cards, waiting to see if they would be matched or bettered. He refocuses from his poetry whims, soon enough to hear Nancy’s prayers for them over the line. A mocking breath from his nose, though he appreciates her concern. Her conviction and faith despite her prayers being sent to those in the thrall of hell. Facing down the maw of the devil. It was almost ludicrous and had Rook been a little ruder, a little more pessimistic he would tell her so. Ever the people pleaser.

“Now listen up, three rules; stick close, keep your guns in their holsters, and let me do the talking. Got it?” Whitehorse lists off with a finger to emphasize each point.

“Got it.” Marshal Burke agrees. Though there is no conviction in his voice.

“Rookie,” Whitehorse addresses him next. To an outsider, it would seem as if he were checking on his brief muteness. Checking in to see it was not a wandering consciousness. But to him, who knew, it was an extended hand, ‘are you alright?’, but not said with those words. He nods to alleviate the Sheriff's worries and his own. “-alright everyone, stay sharp. Let’s go.”

Rook waits a moment before exiting the helicopter after the rest. He puts a hand on Staci’s shoulder giving it a quick, firm squeeze. His own unspoken, ‘it’s okay’. Staci looks at him with a crooked grin, his brows knit with worry. And as if to chastise him Rook ruffles his hair and leaves, before anything else can be said or done.

They march forward. Whitehorse’s steady babble of commands being the brook that guides them forward. Rook keeps his stride beside Joey. Her shotgun faced to the ground despite the hostility that greets them. His own gaze flickering like that of the bonfires, between perceived adversaries. Taking note of the environment. It’s people and advantages that may arise in this otherwise hopeless situation. Their standing side-by-side mimics in his mind a scale, a balance between the two. He shakes the thought away, knowing the observation does nothing besides humour him.

“Sheriff, I don’t like this.” Joey voices her concern. Over the loud drawl of savage dogs barking. The consistent whir of the helicopter blades still going. It was unlike her to allow her tone to betray her. It causes a reaction from Rook. He feels inside him those metaphorical scales tip unbalanced.  
“Everything is fine Hudson.” Whitehorse, ever the pragmatist consoles where Rook can not. As his mind is a flurry of thought, caught up in the what-ifs. But interrupted by what Rook is coming to view as a grating voice.  
“Jesus Christ. You’re wearing badges aren’t you?” A rhetorical question meant to ease worries or provoke, but what he has come to learn of this man, he suspects the latter.

“They don’t respect badges much out here,” Joey states the fact that is becoming all the more apparent.

“They’ll respect a 9-millimetre,” Burke says as if to mock the rules that the sheriff had laid out only moments before. Though in his heart Rook himself felt that those rules may have been made to be broken.

“How about a dozen of them? And a few shotguns of their own. I’m sure they have plenty of variety they’d be willing to share the business end of.” Rook betrays his silence to offer what can not be mistaken as constructive. People deal with stress in their own ways, jokes are one of the least appropriate. But Rook is not known for being pious in that matter. They do him the service of not commenting. The members of Project Eden’s Gate, so fondly dubbed ‘Peggies’ around them. Encroaching too much on their conversation and their person. 

Forward, by the light of the moon, their path laid bare ahead. Together forward by silent communication, their passage shared. Rook hears it then, carried on the wind beside the ash and scowls. Past the barking and the helicopter blades. Backing too many thoughts and doubts. Behind the commitment to duty, and his comrades in arms. It is a choir from the church just beyond. It would be beautiful under other circumstances, haunting now with the task at hand.

They approach the church doors, Burke making for the handle, hand firm on his gun. Whitehorse interrupts.

“Whoa, Marshal. We do this, we do it my way. Quietly.” And to stifle Burkes obvious agitation and protest “-Calmly. You got it?” Joey catches Rook’s eye. They communicate so much at a glance. They both know otherwise.

“Fine,” Burke says, again no conviction there.

“Hudson on the door, watch our backs. Don’t let any of these people get in.” A turn of his head as he sweeps the amassing followers biting at their heels. “Rookie, on me. And you-” He turns back to Burke “Try not to do anything stupid.” Almost defeat in his tone, likely he knows too well.

“Relax Sheriff, you’re about to get your name in the paper.” Another of the Marshals digs. His hand on Whitehorse's arm is nothing like what Rook had shared with Staci. Has shared with Joey and the Sheriff himself. He knows it’s not to comfort but to urge him forward.

Again Rook spares a glance at Joey and finds her already looking at him. “You’ll be fine.” She steadies that balance within him, barely. Maybe it was more for herself than for him? Not the time to ask, even without words.

And so, like a wolf resolute in taking the babe from its cradle. He stalked forward, his gait showing no fear, though he felt it. He only shows determination, though his heart hesitates. His inhibitions held, locked away as not to betray his duty. Behind Burke and Whitehorse, to meet the devil. To arrest Joseph Seed.

Inside the church, the choir has died. Having sung their piece or an underlying knowledge of their arrival. When the doors open the light of the moon spills inside. And the light that witnesses the congregation spills out and over them. Making them part of it.  
“Something is coming,” Joseph’s Georgia accent announcing their arrival. If it is just part of his line of preaching it is almost too coincidental to consider. “You can feel it can’t you? We are creeping towards the edge and there will be a reckoning. That is why we started the project because we know what happens next. It will come, it will try and take from us, take our guns, take our freedom, take our faith.” Each word is spoken just so. Emphasis where needed.

As they approach the followers all rise from the pews, as does Rook’s heartbeat. Unless you were him you would be none the wiser to the panic in facing the crowd around him. It would be funny to call it stage fright, but not to interrupt at this time.

“We will not let them.” Joseph continues and it is when Burke's agitation becomes more apparent. Rife to interrupt. Things become too loud in Rook’s mind once again. Joseph speaks on. The Marshal’s impatience bubbles forth and Whitehorse works to cover the pot. Voices loud, amplified by the mob around him, and thoughts too many as things come to ahead. He looks around, for that revelation he searched for in the video and doesn’t find it. His attention flittering everywhere but the faces of the angry, the outraged. He looks past them for their redemption. For their understanding, surely they knew this was coming? Seeing as the leader is a prophet.

Burke shoves the warrant forward. It is illuminated by the light of the church. Rook can see it so easily set alight by the dim bright like the bonfires. The paper feeble in all manners of structure and meaning. Burke proceeds to recite the song and dance he feels he was born to do and Joseph ignores him. His rattling off of a speech of his arrest fell on the deaf ears of the would-be victim.

“There they are, the locusts in our garden, see they’ve come for me.” To compare their encounter to a plague? Rook could almost chuckle. He always loved poetic metaphors. “They’ve come to take me away from you. They’ve come to destroy all that we’ve built.” Louder still and it invokes a murmur in the crowd, threatening to turn uproar and it does. Panic, he feels it, fears it. Fears what it does to others and himself, not daring to allow his hand to stray to the holster at his side. His amusement was short-lived. He doesn’t hear Joseph's words as he tells his followers to leave, but he sees them go. Sees the rest of the Seed family step into view, more so than before. He watches the straggling Peggies leave. A lingering fear for Joey, just beyond the door. He can not begin to fear for Staci. Or even himself.

“I saw when the lamb opened the first seal and I heard as it were the noise of thunder one of the four beasts say, come and see...” The Father, arms outstretched towards the sky, his rosary dangling from his wrist. Fervent in his delivery, to get it all out before the Marshal interrupts again. Which he does.

“Step. forward.”

“And I saw,” His finger pointing accusingly in the face of Burke “And behold. It was a white horse, and hell followed with him.” His gaze went from the sheriff to Rook, in a deliberate way before bringing his wrists forward.

“Rookie, cuff this son of a bitch.” Not appreciating the command, but respecting that Burke had not used his real name if he even knew it. He swallowed the defiance. The scream that threatened forth. And barely above a murmur, Rook spoke. But his voice carried in the now almost vacant church, to the ears of a well enough audience heard.

“And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth,” he stepped towards the eyes that bore into him. Closing the gap. Slowly between safety and the foundation that held this very building aloft. Four pillars of absolute. “-to kill with sword,” his eyes met the youngest of the Seeds, John. “-and with hunger,” next, the eldest, Jacob. “-and with death,” and then to the interloper in their midst, but who belonged all the same, Faith. The adopted sister.

Without hesitation, and the gap closed. His eyes encased the outstretched wrists in front of his. Surrender only in action. “-and with the beasts of the earth.” he lowered his voice further, into an intimate secret shared between him and the Father. Like a confessional, but he knew everyone had heard. Just as everyone had seen the command the shepherd had over his flock. But with the hunger in their eyes, were they lambs? Or the beasts that had played past Rook’s lips?

Clicking the cuffs into place he looked into the Father’s face, for the first time. Past the barrier of yellow-tinted glasses. He almost seemed pleased by Rook's recital. Or was that his interpretation of the matter? It was of too many a lesson of scripture in his time through the education system. Too many an afternoon waiting away from home for them to come, to collect him away from tales of fire and brimstone. He could even say he was waiting now for his father's hand, biological, and his mother's voice, shrill. To call him back through the church doors. Now that he stood face-to-face with those stories. As he waited for the thumbs to repeat their actions from the video and dig out his eyes. A blind martyr, not born as Bartimaeus, but made.

“God will not let you take me.” A prediction, a promise, a warning. Maybe a veiled threat, but veiled or not Rook’s gloved hand over his shoulder, led him down the aisle. How almost ceremonious the action. Echoed steps drew them closer to the havoc beyond the doors. Rook felt unwell turning his back to the other Seed siblings. Knowing full well that he had just planted vengeance in their mind.

A blur, like a clouded memory, faint and hard to recall. The dedication of his followers as they scream for their Father’s release. They walk a separate path from their journey to the church. Spectators to something unjust, it's too hard to look away from. Rook felt compassion for the Peggies, the desperation in their voice. Too distracted to notice the same firm squeeze he was giving Joseph as he had given Staci. He may not have noticed, but Joseph did. Some voices rose above the others, maybe a tell of their participation in the choir. Training their vocal cords for what was to come. Did they know? Did they think it would change their minds?

“You can’t take him, he's holy!” But he was taking him. Their question is if he should. Burke pushes one of the more insistent to the mud. Rook hesitates to help them up, but keeps walking, knowing to keep going is getting them closer to safety. Safety that he at least perceives. Rocks are thrown, and he cops the pelting. To dodge would put the captive at risk of the stray. It would put himself at risk as seeming weak. How annoying it is that even now his morals played with his rein, his pride. He should just get to the helicopter. Cart Joseph Seed off to the fucking judicial system and let what he wrought dilute in his absence. And push anyone that gets in his way, but he won’t. Raised right one might say, but he knows otherwise.

Back at the helicopter with Staci and the rest was not the reunion he had hoped for. Not even the one he had expected. Peggies scrambled for the helicopter, for Joseph. To pry him from their grasp, their clutches. Rook tries to pay them no mind as he secures the Father in his seat. Joseph, head back looking serene in the chaos around him. Another person and Rook would ask how he’s doing it. Keeping composed, but being who it is he felt he knew. Insanity in its raw form. That or total conviction, but what’s the difference? The screaming, and the hum of amazing grace that fell from the Father’s lips. Burke pushes a Peggie from the helicopter as it makes its ascent. He shoots another. 

Rook's hand finds Joey's arm beside himself. His grounding, his anchor. His friend, too swept up in the panic to notice. Her grip is the only thing keeping the door from opening on her side. He looks to Staci, hopes for that smirk that told him he was being overdramatic. He did not. To Whitehorse for that authoritative reassurance. He did not. He then looks past them, not getting what he wanted. He sees a youth on the front windscreen and their eyes meet. Young like the teens that sprayed the graffiti. He sees fear, faith, and worst of all; complete absolute in his decision. What decision? Rook soon finds out as the man, no, the boy dives forward. Into the whir of the blades above. And his blood, the red curtain that slips down adding finality to his act. And scene.

They spin out of control, and they come crashing down. The lull of the Father’s song doesn’t even hitch as they hit the ground. Rook loses consciousness.

Not for long. Not long enough. He is suspended upside down by his belt. The helicopter on its back like an overturned turtle. Weak and at the mercy of its prey. No assistance. Fire around him. This time close enough to be licking at him, literally. Unlike his ruminations before. Sparks across his skin threatening to turn his flesh to ash, have he not pull himself together. And he is trying to the full extent of the word. But with his brain still spinning like the descent he would hardly be surprised if he had lost it along the way. Through the fog and unconscious bodies of friends around him. He hadn’t even checked if they were all accounted for, he heard her. Nancy, over the line. The dangling headset just beyond his reach he gauged with his eyes. But he would have to try to be sure, so he does and reaches out. Against gravity and the belt holding him there. It cutting into the layer of cloth, his uniform, that separated him from the fire and the brisk night air. Quite the opposites.

“Are you there?” Nancy says. And he is if he could only reach he could tell her. The fact belts are made to be undone escaping him at that moment. Not to be blamed though, he did just survive a helicopter crash.

He reaches it, just as someone reaches him. He goes still, face to face once again with the Father, though the tables are turned. Out of the restraints of both the belt and the cuffs. His hand around Rook’s wrist, keeping him from bringing the headset to his mouth. So he could ease Nancy’s worries, or to elevate them, he wasn’t sure. And he was singing still, in that quiet that Rook himself had donned in the church. A secret between the two of them. One that would be kept, if one of them was dead. 

“I told you God wouldn't let you take me.” Joseph shared his secret with him. And Rook if not so encased in the shock of the crash may have voiced what had come to mind. That God DID let him take him. Just not very far. Not breaking eye contact he takes the headset from Rooks loose grip. His eyes not betraying if he had only just heard Nancy’s desperate pleas for acknowledgement. And he gave it to her. “Dispatch,”

“Oh my God.” Nancy’s voice shuddered in relief, or maybe fear if she recognized the voice on the line.

“Everything is just fine here, no need to call anyone.” Rook tries to break the eye contact, too personal. He studies the yellow-tinted glasses and their new cracks. The only indication of his person that he had too, just survived a helicopter crash. He waited what seemed like an eternity to hear Nancy spring into action, to call in the national guard, to help them. It was no more than a fraction of a second before Rook was disappointed.

“Yes, Father. Praise be to you.” And so the snake in the grass reveals itself at the worst of times. As expected. Not the betrayal, but the act itself. The poison stings his heart as it settles. And Joseph, as if reading his mind says what he thinks aloud.

“No one is coming to save you.” Quieter than even the whispers before. Drawing attention to how it seems the man just doesn't blink. Serpentine again, like a running theme. A running joke that had grown old in Rook’s mind as he is the butt of it. Joseph climbs out of the wreckage towards the embrace of his followers. And Rook’s focus is drawn elsewhere. He springs to action, trying to rouse Joey beside him. She, being too close to the Father for his liking. The Father who now climbs atop the roof of a car to address the Peggies coming into view. He says the first seal had been broken, that the collapse was upon them. And Rook cared to listen no more, his hand reaching out again for Joey’s arm. His voice catching in his throat from either emotion of the smoke he has inhaled and continues to. He spares a glance to Burke whose cough indicates his rousing. Or his own inhalation of smoke. But his attention is soon snapped back to Joseph whose voice has taken an authoritative tone. Commanding and terrifying for Rook as he hangs upside down in the wreck close to dead.

“Begin the reaping!” The Peggies swarm the helicopter once again. This time not clamouring for the retrieval of the Father. But for them. The dread of it seizes Rook as hands seize Joey from her perch and drag her out. She was conscious enough to protest with desperation and fear obvious to him. He tries for her leg, to keep her there. And it would be funny, trying to keep a friend in a burning ball of mangled steel, but now it's preferable. They came back for him and said flames drove them back. Rook then copies the marshal and wrestles with his belt, only now remembering that he could. Burke spares him no help when he is free himself. Running off to the invitation of the woods. Rook gets free, he is quick to fix gravity's hold on him. He remains a moment longer. He doesn’t see any of his friends left. He assumes they have been taken too. Doesn't find that revelation still. And he runs off into the forest, following the assumed trail of the Marshal who had left him to burn. 

Bullets spray past his hearing, nearly nicks against his arm spur him forward. Barking no longer tethered behind chain-link fences. Animated in his running, but not laboured in his breathing. He had trained for this, just, not for THIS. Reachin a steep incline, one he was on top of. Rook had no time to determine if the body of water below was deep enough before he jumped. Ever impulsive.

It was, thankfully. And Rook made short work of getting to the other side of this small, but a deep-enough pond. At a safe distance Rook takes to the underbrush. In a crouched prowl as not to draw attention to himself. To not run the risk of smoke inhalation taking effect on his endurance. Coming across a shovel that is a better weapon than none. Good timing too, as he also happens across a building. Manned by a single guard, distracted by orders over the radio he held to his ear. He comes up behind him and with the shovel, and rendered him unconscious. He almost feels silly now, not pushing the swarm of Peggies out of his way. Now that a man laid sprawled in front of him and he looted what he could. He took the radio and found a handgun, and he was glad to have gotten the jump on him. He quickly switches the radio to a channel he usually shared with the rest of the lot back at the station. Before making even quicker work in securing the building the man had been guarding.

Not much of an outpost but Rook pocketed the bullets and bandages he found. He almost let out a sigh of respite before the radio at his hip crackled to life. He turned it down when Burke’s voice came through as not to give away his position. He made his way out of the building, he had not bothered moving the Peggies from where he lay. In part resentment, something he would need to keep in check Rook noted. But moved on regardless.

Burke’s voice ushered him to a trailer. Sure enough, he approached the bridge he said it was by and crossed it. Cautious but fast on his feet. Knowing the channel of communication is unsecured and anyone else could be on their way. Or already there. At the door of the trailer, he readies the pistol in his hand and enters. Not ready enough as an ambush has him drop the firearm. But as luck would have it his assailant is Burke.

“Oh shit Rook, I’m sorry, I thought they got ya,” A piss poor excuse between heavy breaths. As if the Marshal had not seen just how very seated he was in the helicopter before he ran off. But right now was not the time for vindicating words. Not yet. “Come on,” He leads him through the trailer making order to secure the place. He retrieves the dropped handgun, replacing the one in his holster. He couldn't check if it was waterlogged so better to just assume so.

When Rook determines the room safe he returns to Burke watching anxiously out the window. “Oh Jesus, I had no idea,” Despite all the warnings, Rook remarks snidely in his mind. “-Fuck, we’re putting this whole family away. All of em’-” Burke pulls a portrait of the family off the wall. Their influence even touches that of a run-down trailer it seems. The Seeds so calmly posed for a photo is hilarious in its own right, but Rook does not voice this. Not to interrupt the marshal as realization finally settles in for him. “Fucking lunatics!” So much for being quiet as Burke brings the portrait down on a nearby table. Shattering the glass and splitting the frame. As if it would affect them. Seemingly back from his anger, he lays out a plan, passing Rook the gun that was once mounted on the trailer wall. You have to love America and it’s right to bear semi-automatics. Or not. Behind Burke’s plan to take the road and it’s hours to Missoula. To bring back the national guard and bring down retribution. Behind that, he can hear a car pull up. Burke hears it too soon enough when its doors slam shut and its occupants make way.

Rook makes for the window, not long after it shatters. A firefight proceeds as they push back against the waves of incoming Peggies. With enough gathered in one spot Rook aims for something in particular. A red barrel wasn’t very inconspicuous and the explosion was surely even less so. He hardly had the time for thought that he was killing. A moral dilemma he may not have time for, maybe ever. If he even gets out of this alive. Outside and well covered they make way towards a pickup truck. Their ticket to the road as most vehicles are. But a much more desperate notion right now.

Rook had been in a high-speed pursuit before. Not one of Hollywood's standards, and sure as hell it was not on the receiving end of the chase. The drunk he had pulled over decided that driving off was a viable option. Not over a snail's pace and a few blocks away he was apprehended. It was nothing like this. He could swear he could smell the faint burn of rubber. As the wind whipped his face from the broken windscreen in front of him. He leans out the window to clear the roads out in front of him and behind to disperse the interlopers. They ran out in front of the truck as if it would slow them down. Maybe it should have. The implication of running over souls without hesitation. Rook could hear planes now, joining in the pursuit, but he doubts he is being featured on the evening news. He is sure these planes are mounted not by cameras but guns. A recollection of North by Northwest has Rook retreat into the cabin of the truck. Not even sure he had enough bullets to take down a plane. Rightly so as it took fire. The sight of the bridge ahead offered a little reprieve. As no sooner had the tires crossed the threshold of the middle of it, it fell out from under them. A bomb dropped from the plane above. Rook thought of Burke's words. Words of retribution raining down as they plunged into the water below. 

Not unconscious, Rook was stock-still with shock. The icy waters and his metal coffin, his second metal coffin of the night. And the second time Burke escapes its confines without sparing him a second glance. His lungs burned, unlike the sensation of the smoke and fire. It was crushing and all-encompassing. He swims out the broken front of the truck. Thanking who knows what he hadn’t paid mind to his safety and didn’t buckle his seatbelt. He swims in the direction he suspects is up, hopes it is to the surface. Little he can do to avoid the debris that cascades the water around him. That light better be the surface and not the cliche we all know. Rook says to himself. Stress and how he deals with it present even now. He breaks the surface and gulps down the air it offers in rasps. He drags his living corpse to the embankment. He turns himself onto his back and looks blearily up to the moon. The moon looks back and casts her light down on him threatening his capture as they would find him in her embrace. The marshal was captured, he heard as much himself. His eyes danced to the bridge and further still to the flashlights in the distance. Where they surrounded their protesting captive. Loud and hopeless and lost to them as far as Rook cared at that moment. A brush with death too many times had him accepting it, as fate.

But fate was interrupted. A man’s silhouette blocked the moon from him. Pulling him from her embrace. Leaving only the night and the barrel of the gun pointing down his head. And again he was lost to the waking world as this stranger hauled him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Little did Rook care at that moment. Little did his self-preservation rear its head. His lungs were too heavy with smoke and water. His head was too full of thoughts of what he could have done differently and how the outcome would change. And head too full of what was no doubt a concussion. His limbs refused him, they are foreign to him now as they lay limp. And he can only think to himself; what a joke that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do feel free to share your thoughts. This is not proof-read and basically a scramble to collect my ideas into something. All written in a day mind you, but brewing up over some time. Do tell me who Rook should pursue if anyone. And what direction I should take this. Thank you for taking the time to read, love ya ;D


	2. Gun-shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook wakes up in Dutch's bunker then he leaves; shit ensues. I also take the opportunity to describe my Rook's appearance for the first time, and I sound like a smitten fan-boy doing it. Call me out on it.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. He should have known when the fire first greeted him. His wrists begin to rub raw but he does not know why yet. He has stirred but feigns sleep, as not to open his eyes. To not face that he does not know where his friends lay, be it in hospital beds, in captivity. Or God forbid six feet below. A headache pinches at the nerves behind his eyes. A tell-tale sign of a migraine, something he is too familiar with. His Achilles heel, one of many despite only having two feet. Albeit, they may both be left ones, seeing the clumsy mess of a situation he’s in. It pissed him off. Not being able to ward off the weakness that claims him, and wracks his brain. But no time for a pity party. He lacks the hats and streamers. He allows himself a groan, to release some tension, though only placebo relief.

Opening his eyes he feels he has taken another man’s skin. The cuffs on his wrists are not meant to be there, but it explains the pain, and the stiff feeling in his arms. They may not be the ones he used on Joseph, they were zip ties, but he feels he had traded places with the man all the same. He tests their security against the bedframe he’s tethered to. From what he can tell it would be sooner for the bed to collapse. In all it’s rust before the millennium it would take for the plastic to corrode. Lest he mutates in the 5 minutes it will take for him to lose his patience. Evolve the claws he needs like Wolverine to free himself. Maybe becoming Cyclops would be more likely? With the sinus pressure behind his eyes like lasers.

He then notices the radio, or rather, a radio turning off. Its lack of echo in the dank and dark of his surroundings. Underground would explain the lack of natural light, sun or moon. A bunker? He turns his head to the now absence of sound. The man there was no longer with his lunar backdrop, it's replaced with the American flag. How patriotic Rook mulled. The rednecks and politicians alike of this country waving it around when they could. For their agenda. But both parties usually weren't very cosmopolitan. The original definition of the word. Not the awful magazine Rook had the displeasure of reading one seating at the dentists.

“Do you know what that shit means?” The man tosses his thumb in the direction of the radio. He waits a moment, maybe waiting for a response. Rook arches an eyebrow and gives a curt shake of his head. He hadn’t even heard the thing behind the murmur of pain. He regrets shaking his head, it feels like a bag of rice. Rot and riddled with vermin from improper stowage. 

The aged man, white whiskers and bald head crosses the room and sits in the chair in front of him. How perfectly placed, Rook thinks. He hopes he had put it there for his awakening speech and had not occupied it in his slumber. Awake now. And marginally more sure his current companion isn’t immediately going to shoot or maim him. Rook looks around. Even without the army jacket. Or the paraphernalia on the wall behind him he could tell this guy was military. Gruff, brash and will take shit from nobody. At least he assumes. Not likely going to stop him from dishing it though. But WITH his army jacket Rook sees more. The patch at his breast and cautions a guess that his moonlight knight is called Dutch.

“It means the roads have all been closed. It means the phone lines have been cut. It means no signal is getting in or out of this valley.” Dutch continues. “But mostly, it means we’re all fucked.” Rook gives a strained huff of a laugh. Still worn by exertion and abuse. Seems he was right; blunt indeed. Dutch then studies him, as if to appraise him after his reaction. Not all too pleased he sighs.

Shackled to the end of the bed, Rook can see this is just one room of many. Now at the moment, while his new ‘friend’ judges him he takes it all in. Doomsday prepper, if this was a bunker. Otherwise a very sad man with scarce a window insight and a penchant for concrete walls and floors.

The twenty tally marks on the wall make him curious, no way he was dead to the world 20 days, a coma that. Unlikely for someone to count down the hours so. More likely it was for something other than his situation. He was not the centre of the universe after all. He notices then above it a quote; ‘The world is a diagonal... I am the balancing point.’ It’s so familiar that Rook feels he should know it.

The bed itself housed the bane of all blankets. In all of its satin-trimmed glory. The perpetrator of every bad night sleep away from home, be it motel, hotel or guest room. The acrylic Hell is an ugly blanched almond colour. As he looks at it he hopes this is not going to be an extended stay. If blankets were a team, Rook was a proud supporter of cotton doonas, just catch him at all their laundry rallies.

The fluorescent, yellow bar of light on the wall does well in casting doubt in an ominous light. The one not working beside it does well in its dichotomy to enlighten him to the hopelessness he is faced with. But at the end of the day they are the same lights you find on the ceiling of a gas-station, so who is to say?

“The goddamn ‘Collapse’... They think the world is coming to an end now. They’ve been waiting for it.” Eyes as silver as his beard past reading glasses. Rook feels he should point out the hypocrisy. Seeing if the rest of his observations were correct, he too is a doomsday prepper. But he holds his tongue. Lest he loses it this moment. Dutch must see his amusement in his eyes because his own become pointed, steel like the edge of a knife. “For years they’ve been waiting for somebody to come along and fulfil their prophecy. Kick-off their goddamn Holy War.” He gives him an accusatory glare, which Rook returns in jest. “Well, you sure as shit kicked,”

“-The bucket just about. I’m sure you noticed when you dragged me out the river like a drowned rat.” A glint of a smirk on his face as he says so, to hide the shame.

“That I did, carried you here too, well enough. You’re welcome.” Carried? Him? By this old man, army or otherwise Rook was not exactly dainty. He was built from his training, he kept it up even after leaving the academy. A swimmers body his admirers had observed. Broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, like an inviting arrow. Long legs and strong arms. Certainly not someone to sweep up bridal style and it's almost an insult to suggest so. Makes all his work enduring eating his leafy greens as a kid worth nothing. He earnt his height he likes to think, all six-foot-whatever of it.

“The smartest thing for me to do would just be to hand you over.” Dutch slides his chair closer, it shrieking like how metal does against concrete. Protesting in Rook’s stead. Yet Rook pipes up himself.

“Don’t be smart on my account. I would appreciate not being handed off to the slaughter, the lamb I am.” Dutch makes an exasperated noise. Pushes up his glasses to rub at his eyes then massages his temples. Like just talking to Rook has transferred his migraine over.

“Fuck…” Now Rook’s smart mouth had gotten him into many a fistfight in the past, and surely in the future. But in the present, Dutch stands abrupt and brandishes a switch-blade. All too big compared to the ones Rook is familiar with. Rook is just about ready to regret his wit. That is until Dutch cuts the tie that binds him on the floor. To the leg of this rusty as fuck bed and its shitty choice of linen. He instinctively rolls his wrists in a carpel-tunnel prevention exercise as he stands.

“Get out of that uniform -- we need to burn it. There are some fresh clothes there. When you get changed you come and see me.” Rook looks down at his uniform, his name, his real one, on the breast. But obscured. He had also worn a jacket that night. It wasn’t standard practice but he hoped it had hidden him from the Seeds at least slightly. He understands the need to see it up in flames. Anonymity was key. That and it was ice-cold and still a sponge of the water he fell into. Not to sound ungrateful, but could Dutch not even spare a towel? At least he didn’t strip him so that's victory enough. “Let’s see if we can un-fuck this situation.”

“Easier said than done, just ask my mother, when she learnt I was on the way.” Rook goes to the locker and begins to rifle through it. He doesn’t need to see to know that Dutch is already sick of him. And very maybe even considering revoking the kindness of sparing him from the Seeds. He has the chance to clobber him over the head with his back turned and ship him off, like a transport of cattle. But he doesn't, he only leaves the room so that Rook may dress in peace and privacy. If this room isn’t hooked up with security cameras that is. Dutch seems like the kind of guy.

He pulls his phone out of his pants pocket. Completely dead both battery and water-wise. So much for checking the time. Or texting his friends' unsolicited memes. Or watching that video again. He shudders. Did anyone wear a body-cam? He can only imagine the paperwork to go with it, because how do you explain THAT without video-proof? A necessary citation for off-the-walls crazy. He chucks the useless thing on the bed.

He takes off his leather gloves first, their wool lining unbearable when wet, like moss, slimy. He tosses them into the trash can behind him already cascading with rubbish. Deemed unrecoverable in his mind. Soon after his shoes and socks are gone in the wind.

Shucks off his jacket and next to go is the uniform. He mockingly folds them and places them on the chair. Knowing they’d be destroyed made it funny to him to treat them with care. Same could be said for himself, he grins. Even with all that care Rook takes the time to rip every button off it and pocket it. Call it frugal, or stupid, they may come in handy.

This leaves him in short leg briefs and he regrets not finding a replacement for them. Before they were exposed to the cold and stagnant air of the bunker. It drew his attention back to the fact that he was soaked to the bone. Not fond of the idea of sharing another man's undergarments he almost cries out in triumph! When he finds an unopened bulk of boxers. Hidden at the bottom of the locker. He pulls on the simple pinstripe of cheaply made fabric. Before carousing further for more attire. 

He pulls on wool socks over polyester ones, if he needed more insulation, he would discard the top layer. But when it comes to hiking the more protection from blisters the better. A soldier is best when his feet are well-cared for. But he can’t remember what movie said that. Anyway, if Dutch was right about the roads all being closed, hiking it was. Next is a pair of Cargo pants, camo green in pattern and common enough. He recovers his belt from the folded pile, the waist of said pants just about sliding off his hips. Dutch being on the more portly side compared to the narrow of him. It wasn't a surprise.

He tucks the cargo pants into high-top, steel toe boots. Put on with the aid of a metal shoe-horn hanging on the inside of the locker door. Just his size and a shade of brown meets black that wasn't garish. He laced them uptight. With his aforementioned left feet, he wasn’t taking any chances loose laces bring about.

A nondescript black shirt. It was so big he swam in it. It was tight against his broad shoulders but loose when it met his lack of a belly. A strange fit. He tucks the shirt into the pants and rolls up the long sleeves to his elbows to allow him better motor function. He resists the urge to adorn the abhorrent ‘fish fear me, women want me’ cap. He assumes everything in this make-shift wardrobe is bulk bought. From some warehouse’s cheap clearance sale. That or Dutch’s Christmas gifts sucked as much as his own.

Rook runs his hand through his hair, frizzy from not being dried properly. His hair-tie somehow managed to hold in its regular style of a half-up half-down ponytail. His salted caramel blonde hair reached a little past the nape of his neck. His complexion tawny, sunkissed like a permanent tan despite the lack of beach in Hope County. His eyes brown before the sun hit them when they are unmistakable for anything but honey. But what a busy bee you would be to notice that. They were adorned with a crown of thick eyelashes, perfect for batting. Not that he would, outside the right circumstances. He hazards a redo of his hair the same way. Tidying it very barely.

Last, he finds a half-mask balaclava, he pulls it on checking its fit. Again, anonymity is key. It works well enough and pulls it down to act as a bandana til he inevitably leaves the bunker. He stops a moment to assess himself. His critical eye is all he needs to humble him. He thinks he's done well enough with what's available, his job being half done for him already. Considering he didn't have to purchase the clothes. Then again he very well near paid with his life more than twice for this dollar-bin outfit so there’s that.

Done with his primping and pruning. Rook follows the sound of yet another radio further down the concrete prison. And lo and behold, there's that surveillance system. Dutch is hunched over the wall of screens, each telling their tale of paranoia. Wrapping up whatever broadcast to listening ears he was making.

The room's light is red as if illuminated by an exit sign. Rook sees no pretty pictures developing in this red room. Only the portraits of the Seed’s pinned and mapped out on a cork-board on the wall. It made the glow more akin to that of the dark-webs rendition of a red room. Seeing their faces here right now, Rook was just waiting for the torture. It's broadcast for hungry eyes.

Emergency this all told him. The detail of the study that went into the walls adornment of the Seed’s activity. Paper, documents, and pictures are haphazardly strewn about. Lining the floor beside it like someone was preparing to potty-train a young pup. The fan in the corner offers no threat of tossing the mess about. Even on, the paper streamers barely lift enough to a salute a hello. As Dutch is military maybe Rook should instead?

“Couldn’t find something that fits?” Dutch asks, taking his attention away from the screens. He Looks at the swamp of fabric on his torso.

“Well, that's what belts and ingenuity are for.” Rook shrugs. Rook takes a look at the t.v’s, they mostly showed outdoor scenes, so blurry he can only just make them out.

“I didn’t properly introduce myself earlier,” Dutch says, or at least the man he assumes is named Dutch says.

“It was one well enough, you’re Dutch, right? Unless that's a borrowed jacket and this becomes embarrassing.” Rook gestures at the patch he noticed earlier. The man looks down at it, probably forgetting it was there.

“That’s what most people call me, yes. And you, from your shirt, are-” Rook cuts off the man that IS called Dutch.

“Just Rookie is fine, we’re burning the uniform for a reason. It’s what people know me by anyway.” One of his better nick-names Rook thinks.

“Fair enough.” Dutch nods. “I’m trying to piece together what’s happening up top… It ain’t good.”

“How long was I out?” Rook finally asks. He regrets not wearing a watch, not that he even owned one.

“A good chunk of hours. It's approaching the afternoon now. Not the next day, the one after.” Rook nods, silent. Not up for the task of wringing a joke out right now. Two days almost. He purses his lips in consideration, he had to ask, not like he couldn’t know this. Still looking at the tv screens he couldn’t tell at all. He thinks all hours of the day on these things looked like dull shades of grey. Lined with static like how the old dial-up internet used to load images. Probing the time of day from it was like trying to distinguish the face of a particular acquaintance from a Rorschach test. “About your friends,” Rook snaps to attention then, facing Dutch. He acts completely unintentionally. He leans forward, he holds his breath. Even his eyes go a little wider. “Little I can gather is that they’re alive…” 

“...For now.” Rook finishes, no volume to his voice. He closes his eyes shut and takes in a long inhale.

“They seem to be split up, each one handed off to a different member of Joseph’s ‘family’.” He squeezes his eyes shut tighter daring them to try anything. Leans back out of Dutch’s space. His exhale wavers a tiny bit. If Dutch noticed he doesn’t say. He clenches and unclenches his fists like in each he was kneading a stress ball. “You want ‘em back, I get it -- I got friends that been taken, too. Problem is, there ain’t no help coming.” Rook almost smiles. He was the giggle at a funeral. He can’t control it, it’s just an innate reaction. Brought on by nerves and not knowing how to cope with bad news otherwise. Ever inappropriate.

“No one is coming to save you.” Everything just a few hours ago felt so unreal. But those words, in particular, are starting to become more of a reality. He opens his eyes to meet Dutch’s confused ones. “Joseph Seed himself told me that to my face. Guess he was right.” 

“Maybe so. Nobody knows what’s going on here and they won’t know until it’s too late.” Dutch turns back to his lording over the monitors. He gives a trifle shrug of his shoulders. “There's got to be people out there willing to fight back against this cult. We just… we need to show ‘em how. We need to build us a resistance.” He states the end of his sentence, not with a full stop, but with him bringing down his fist on the table. Not an earth-shattering or wall-punching type of violence. Just a physical show of frustration. “So the first thing we are going to do is get control of this island. Once we get some breathing room we can figure out what’s coming next.”

“Glad you got straight to the point and already included me in all this. Love collective words like ‘we’ and ‘us’. Doubt I could get out of it anyway.” If looks could kill. Rook would have been dead long before this even started. Several times this conversation too. “Where’s a gun that isn’t waterlogged, and a phone too. I need to find my way around and Siri drowned back there in the river.”

“There’s a gun and a map in the safe over there. No phones. Traceable if they want to find you, and by the sounds of it they’re desperate to get their hands on you. Must have made an impression” 

“I tend to do that, for better or for worse.” Rook goes over to the indicated safe. There's a radio too, not as traceable as a phone he guesses. He lost his own when he went overboard.

“Take 'em and I’ll give you a call on the radio once you get your bearings.” 

“I’ll try my best.” Rook hooks the radio to his belt. Tucks the gun in his provided holster. Folds up the map into his pants pocket and hopes it is water-proof. 

“You going to be all right out there? It’s crawling with Peggies,” Rook rolls his shoulders back and stretches up like a cat greeting the sun. He listens as his spines vertebrae click into place. Like turning the key in a car, and he was raring to go. 

“I'm as right as rain,” He responds, ignoring as his head says otherwise. Turns his head from side to side to shake that thought loose, and to bring back its fluid use. It feels a little more rigid than he would like. He attempts to make it more like a swivel. An advantage to catch all that tries to sneak up on him. Owls are a model to follow, with their 360 surveillance.

“Remember they are willing to die for that psychopath, so you gotta be ready to let ‘em.” Dutch escorts Rook to the direction of the entrance. He lets him go down the metal hall on his own. Rook finds the shovel he picked up the night before. Well two nights before, leaning next to the stairs leading up. He can’t even remember carrying it this far. Must have been a reason for it. He all but says ‘fuck it’ and carries it on his person, slung on his back with its makeshift sling of elastic. Accessible in a pinch. Or maybe just to help whoever lands a shot on him to dig a shallow grave. 

He also finds laid out bandages, a pack of matches, extra bullets, a wind-up torch, a multi-tool. And a thermos sadly empty, with a tin-straw built into its side. And to store them a military-style, nylon waist fanny pack. How tactical, for something with ‘fanny’ in the name. He almost missed it, and he can’t fucking believe it. A bouquet of mini alcohol bottles to send him off like a ship's maiden voyage. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth he chucks the whole lot of the variety vice into the pack now secured on his side.

Up he goes, his ascension echoing with metal footsteps. Outlined by the unnatural glow of 100 watts. He heaves the blast door open. It reveals that the time of day he was told was accurate. He is met with crisp wind and the sun filtered through foliage. He pulls the balaclava up over his mouth and nose, but not before taking in a deep breath of pine-scented air. Or what he thinks is pine, he doesn’t know his trees. His eyes take a second to adjust. He kicks a few rocks and watches them scatter. He closes the hatch then, he wasn’t raised in a tent after all.

Rook finds himself in the open world and is left to his own devices. A situation that is anything but standard or advised. He fishes for that map and deduces that he is at the northernmost point of this island of Dutch’s. It was a part of the state park if Rook recalled correctly. And it was very unlikely that Dutch was here legally. No time for squatters though. He carves his path West, along the coast.

“Now listen up -- if you are going to build a Resistance, there are some things you need to know.” Dutch finally speaks up. A few minutes enough time to figure himself out for his orders.

“I thought it was ‘our’ Resistance.” He’s ignored.

“There are four ways you can go about this. First, you can liberate any hostages the cult has taken. These are good people who might just fight alongside you if you help ‘em.” It’s selfish of Rook, but the only people he cares to save at the moment are his friends. Because he saw them taken himself. Just being told there are others doesn't impact him as much as the events he witnessed. Not to mention he knows the people, loves them, misses them already. Doesn’t mean he won’t save people along the way, no. But he doesn’t think it will be the same. 

“Second you can destroy Eden’s Gate property that’s all over the place now. Hell, they’ve built two goddamned shrines on this island alone. Speaking of, from what I can see on my cameras you should be approaching one of ‘em now. But it’s got company, make use of that gun I gave you.” Dutch was right, just ahead something akin to a small chapel loomed in the distance, and the said company. Two Peggies, both bearded and long-haired wielding a shotgun each. Unholstering his pistol Rook felt lacking. 

Not feeling the need to draw this out Rook charges forth like a juggernaut, abrasive and rash. He gets the jump on them, gets a good two shots into one before they even know what's going on. He dives behind some precarious shelter. Before the last one standing gets his chance to orient himself and exact revenge. Rook hopes his refuge is a sturdy crate. He sees his opponent has too, has taken cover, his behind the building. Now that he’s closer Rook views the thing proper. When the hell did they have time or resources to build something like this in 2 days? Unless this was here before, right under his nose. It seems to be permeating a green gas, like some weird Airwick. He’s glad for his balaclava and its job and keeping it from entering his lungs to its full effect. But is curious about how his pain seems to be fading, and the blur of his vision is like a bokeh lens. Highlighting only what he focuses on. And was that a flutter of insect wings? Okay, that’s enough of whatever this is.

“Hey dutch, that green gas coming from the shrine. Is it flammable?”

“It's Bliss, don’t breathe in too much. It’s Faith’s own drug concoction for mind-control.” What a promising premise for a Sci-Fi or a Horror flick Rook thinks. He opens up his new pack. He tears a shred of bandage off with his teeth. Looks for the mini-bottle with the highest alcohol content. He works quickly, hearing the bullets that don’t land its mark on the crate he’s situated behind. Kissing the whisky good-bye he completes his Molotov. “It should go up well enough.” Dutch finishes.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Rook lights a match to light his bomb. He lobs it towards the big red cylinder leaking green in the centre of the shrine. Stop, Go colour co-ordination. And when it explodes Rook thinks red has started to become his favourite colour. Just from exposure.

The Peggie that hid behind it didn’t even make a sound. If he did it was nothing to the small explosion. He was flung a ways out into the water from the impact too, leaving only a single body for Rook to loot. He looks down at the dead man. Guilt threatens forth, but he fights it back when he takes the man’s shotgun from him. He would have used it against him if he had given him the chance. The other guy proved that. Blood has started to pool around the man's corpse in a halo, a chalk outline of a crime. Rook rethinks red and its place as his colour of choice.

Butterflies. Maybe lunar moths? Apophenia, hearing music in the white noise. It sounds like a godly hymn. Rook needs the get the fuck away from this ground zero of Faith’s gateway drug to Eden. 

“Hey Dutch, things are getting a little foggy out here. I’m seeing insects and..flowers?” They look like white lilies. Maybe datura? Moonflower, to match the lunar moths? Whatever it was it was an angel’s trumpet in shape and it ushered in an unwelcome intoxication.  
“Ah shit kid, take that dirt track to the side there, follow it a ways, then head south, You’ll find ya next stop. The Johnson Lookout Tower, rest there a tick and it should pass. It should be on your map.”

“Anything to look out for while I’m there?”

“No Peggies. Now, hurry up, you have shit to do.”

Rook walks or stumbles along in something akin to a light buzz. The lookout tower greets him soon enough. Its sign read ‘Silver Lake Conservation Area Johnson Lookout Tower’. Besides it, he sees the Eden’s Gate cross, hung from the balcony. Dutch said there wasn’t anybody around at the moment and he has no choice but to trust him. He enters the building to cool-off. The Peggies sure did sweep through. Furniture toppled, windows shattered. He checks the fridge. That was at least untouched. It was without power though. He grabs for a Tupperware container, full of chilli, room temperature. It should have kept well enough. He looks at the lid, it’s owner having scribbled his name on the top to remind hungry coworkers this wasn’t their food. Well sorry, Henry. He finds a clean spoon and digs in, feeling ravenous after not eating for some time. He wanders about the room, not caring as he kicks about the mess. He finds a desk and clicks the first button he sees, the big stupid child that he is. It relays a message of a distressed lady to Henry. Peggies with guns on the back of a pick-up truck and Rook could guess what happens next. Sorry, Henry.

There's a table covered in maps and Rook parks his behind in the chair next to it. It gives him the surface to really dig into what could possibly be food poisoning. But his eating habits were not the best already. At least this chilli was home-made and not store-bought. Like store-bought though, it could use a few minutes in the microwave, but trivialities on the sea of a literal war. So no complaints.

“Dutch you said there were four things I could do, you gave two, what’s the rest?” Rook asks, talking with his mouth full.

“Right, where were we at? Third, you can tackle resistance missions. There are a lot of folks out there waging their own war against the cult, and they could sure use your help.”

“Don’t know how you could say that. I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Any help is better than none Deputy.” He emphasizes his title.

“Alright I get it ‘serve and protect’, but I’m wearing a mask for a reason. You said they’re after me so let’s not let them know I’m me, capiche?”

“What should I call you then? You said your other name is known well enough around the valley, so that won’t work.”

“I don’t know? I don’t usually have to make up pseudonyms…” He takes another mouthful of Henry’s chilli and gets an idea. “How ‘bout Jalapeño?”

“Jalapeño? Do I want to ask?” Rook thinks he’s giving the man new wrinkles to his already whelked face. With how much he can hear him frowning down the line.

“I was very hungry, Dutch.” And whoever made this dish wasn’t very good with a knife, or just lazy. Or maybe it was intentional to leave some of the peppers whole, who knows? Not like he could ask them, unlikely they’d appreciate him eating their lunch either.

“Well if you're done, the fourth -- and the last thing you can do -- if you’re really looking for a fight,”

“Always am,” Rook says to himself, not clicking the radio to piss off Dutch. Further.

“-you can take on the cult outposts that have popped up across the county. Liberating those places will give the Resistance solid footholds to push back against Eden’s Gate.” Rook thinks it simple enough, break-shit, and help people. He can do that, no sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am probably going to follow along with the regular story for a bit before I take off into doing-whatever-I-want territory. Rook will eventually become more fleshed out, he has a name and backstory behind closed doors just you wait! He, like his creator, shares an inherent ability to make bad BAD choices, look forward to that haha :p
> 
> Like I mentioned before if the description of my Rook was a little too flowery to make heads or tails of; just think of a tan Thor (marvel cinematic universe of course). Hair a little shorter and a dark shade of blonde and brown eyes. About the same build too if not a little slimmer. About 6'3? So taller than all the Seeds, bc it's important to know that IMO.
> 
> Again, as I said in the previous chapter, any suggestions are more than welcome. I've read what's been said so far and y'all made me blush. Thanks for reading, love ya <3

**Author's Note:**

> Do feel free to share your thoughts. This is not proof-read and basically a scramble to collect my ideas into something. All written in a day mind you, but brewing up over some time. Do tell me who Rook should pursue if anyone. And what direction I should take this. Thank you for taking the time to read, love ya ;D


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